


Warmth

by GoldenThreads



Category: Sins of the Cities Series - K. J. Charles
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21841231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenThreads/pseuds/GoldenThreads
Summary: Rowley was an easy man to cherish, and a hard man to reward.
Relationships: Rowley Green/Clem Talleyfer
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evewithanapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/gifts).



> I love these boys, and in mixing 'huddling for warmth' with Rowley's desires, this was the inevitable conclusion. May it suit!

Rowley was an easy man to cherish, and a hard man to reward. 

They did very well for themselves at Talleyfer’s. A place of their own, quiet and calm, with easy neighbors and income enough to cover life’s necessities plus the occasional outing to watch Pen’s newest routine at the theater. Clem had never needed very much more than a cup of tea and a bit of quiet at the end of the day, and Rowley felt much the same.

But Rowley brought him so very much more than tea and quiet. He was simply…well, Clem had been listening to his literary lectures for months now, trying to find the perfect verse to capture how astonishingly perfect Rowley made each and every day. That careful precision and eye for detail he brought to his work extended to the world around him, to a keen memory of family birthdays so Clem would always have a card and gift tucked away at the ready, to tracking down a first printing for Clem’s collection every time Nathaniel printed an article he was particularly pleased with, to mapping out the vast and colorful cast that populated Gregory’s stories whenever Clem mixed up Philips and Philippas and Felipes in his recollection. Justin’s girls had vicious, monstrous _wolpertingers_ at their bedsides, and Greta a startingly life-sized griffin in her receiving parlor that she used to frighten off unpleasant callers. And in the autumn, when Cat ran away and Clem sank into such a despairing slump he could scarcely be distinguished from lichen on a log, it was Rowley who went door to door asking former clients about their own cats’ habits and somehow pulled a ruddy miracle out of his hat. 

Every night since, warm and beloved by the fireplace with Cat dozing across a familiar lap, Clem had struggled to find a way to thank his Rowley for it. For everything. But for all that Talleyfer’s was theirs, was _home,_ it was not particularly ideal for the ways Clem sometimes wished to show his thanks.

Crowmarsh was. 

As newly minted nobility, Greta had spent one miserable holiday season suffocating on propriety at Crowmarsh—closer to a half-week, really, before she skittered back to London and busied herself being a delightful nuisance at the enquiry agency—and Tim had not been keen to repeat the experience. The next year they’d thrown open the doors, inviting Clem and Pen and whatever other extended family they could charm into spending two weeks of toasty luxury away from the London fog. 

_Hardly a hardship,_ as Rowley had offered with a tight smile the first time around. He said the same to Tim every year since, that smile relaxing into something Clem usually only saw at the Jack and Knave, the bone-deep comfort that his Rowley had always deserved. 

But this year was special. This year, when Clem and Rowley showed up halfway through December with their coats and trunks and presents bundled up with care, Greta kissed their cheeks and announced she and the children were off to stay with such and such Marquess for a week, very sudden, and she would be home as quick as they could, but in the meantime, _oh, please do feel at home!_

And she gave Clem a wink that he didn’t quite know what to do with. Not until he followed Rowley on his yearly griffin inspection, and his eyes caught on the warm flush of Rowley’s cheeks. Not until the maid who served their supper apologized for the limited staff, as their Lord and Lady had given most everyone an early holiday. Not until they were snug in bed and Clem listened, listened, listened, but heard nothing at all, no light snoring of boarders or even soft padding of household beasts – not even the griffin, thankfully.

_Oh._ Clem’s shoulders shook in gentle laughter, though he was careful not to disturb Rowley’s slumbering head against his breast. Yes. Crowmarsh would do.

  


—

  


The hour chimed on some distant clock, and Clem’s eyes slowly lifted from the tea and sweets on his table by fireplace. 

A ragged breath, a shudder of expectation. That was all Clem caught from the treasure he’d so lovingly wrapped up in warm blankets in his bed, and left there, waiting. 

Clem really should stand to check on him, to kiss his brow and let him know how very, very good he was. Only, he made such a lovely picture, didn’t he? Luxuriantly naked, the blankets tucked by shoulder and hip to seal in his warmth while everything else lay on display, a wiry tangle of limbs that burned in Clem’s gut like no ancient, idealized marbles ever could. His glasses sat inside the bedside drawers, safe and sound, which meant this was _his_ Rowley, the one only for Clem, his world narrowed down to only Clem, to the rabbit-kick of his heart in his chest and the desperate ache of his cock, still straining, all of him Clem’s to protect and delight. 

And hands beneath the pillow, still, after Clem asked him to keep them there. Clem loved those hands very dearly, but if this was a rest, then it must be a rest for all of him—overworked hands and all. So beneath the pillow they would stay, unoccupied, and later Clem would kiss each joint one by one.

Rowley’s head lifted in his direction, a lost little motion, a plea, and Clem lifted his teacup to his lips once more. He was not very good at doing two things at once, everyone knew. The tea would go cold if left waiting. Rowley would not.

Clem let the cup clatter against the saucer once he laid them down at last. His footsteps were soft across the floorboards, but he made each step firm, clear enough to hear, so there would be no surprise when the mattress gently bent to admit his weight. 

_Please, please,_ sobbed his lovely preserver when he reached out to brush the sweat-slick hair back from Rowley’s forehead. Rowley’s skin radiated a foreign heat not quite at home in limbs and fingers and toes so accustomed to the chill. Clem wished he could stitch this evening into a sweltering quilt to drape over Rowley’s shoulders, something that would keep the warmth and carry it close to Rowley’s bones all winter long, holding him through the long, long hours in his shop. 

With a soothing, shushing hum, Clem traced the line of Rowley’s jawbone down to the soft valley of his neck, wondering as the tendons there went rigid with life when Rowley gasped. The collarbone, next. He knew nothing of bones compared to Rowley’s encyclopedic memory of articulation in all manner of beast, but to count the ribs two, four, six, gave him a satisfaction beyond science. Clem brushed a knuckle over one peaked nipple, cruelly skirted round the other, and smile as he worked his way down to the next line of inquiry.

Rowley did not like his scars. The first time Clem gave those pale lines the fullest attention he could offer, it had been something of an adventure, a child’s treasure map made for discovery, and Rowley never shied away from Clem’s attempts to explore him. But the next time after that, Rowley’s fingers had tangled in Clem’s hair and tugged him over to a greedy nipple. The next, Rowley’s hips rocked up into Clem’s and scattered all other intentions far out of mind. And the next, and the next. If Rowley did not like something, he was always quick to say. He said nothing about his scars, but squirmed with uncommon movement as soon as Clem lingered there, and that was reason enough to keep away. But if Clem’s _eyes_ lingered, tracing the marks from afar— _two, four, six_ —with Rowley’s world too blurry to make out more than the heat of his gaze, well. Surely that was fine.

Away from the fireplace, the shrill promise of winter nipped at Clem’s skin. It took only one look at Rowley’s desperate, open expression, lips parted with a new round of prayers, for Clem to make a decision.

He peeled back the blankets to slide beneath them, hands going to Rowley’s hips to shift them around until Clem was pressed firm against his back. 

“Behave, won’t you?” Clem breathed against Rowley’s ear with a smile. It did nothing to ease the way Rowley writhed back against him, desperate and—Clem was not at all certain he was allowed to use the word _wanton,_ but there it was, in truth. He freed one of Rowley’s hands from the pillow’s confines and draped it over Rowley’s chest instead, in full reach of his nipples. “You can keep yourself occupied here, if you please. But only here.”

_“Clem.”_

With a smile, Clem dipped his head to rest his lips at the nape of Rowley’s neck. His hand drifted across Rowley’s stomach, palm dragging across the head of his cock and lower still, to take a firm grip of wiry thigh. A tug and a push and Rowley got the idea, choking on want as he parted his thighs to let Clem’s stiff prick tuck between them. 

“There we are,” Clem hummed, relaxing into every sharp edge of Rowley’s straining body, skin against skin. “So very, _very_ good for me. My Rowley. I think I’ll have a cozy nap right here with you. And it would be terribly nice if you were still _up_ when I wake, don’t you think?”

Rowley shuddered, face tucked back into the pillow to smother his trembling sob.

Clem’s fingertips ghosted across his stomach and stilled. “Because if you are, if you’ve been as good as I know you can be, and keep me _very_ warm, then I expect I shall be kind enough to repay your patience. Could you do that for me, my Rowley?”

All the man could manage was a nod.


End file.
